December 26, 2001
three generations
My sister came into town last night, and for a short while, -- at least until she leaves for Montana to meet up with her boyfriend and ski, damn her eyes, -- there are three generations living in my mother's house. Three generations of women, which is something older and honest than holidays or Christmas or even the birthing of new years.
Three generations of women.
That's two generations more than should ever be allowed to live in the same house.
This is a short entry, because this visit I'm the good daughter, a role that alternates between my sister and me depending on the time of year or, for that matter, financial status. Having my own apartment in California that I can return to, and a round-trip ticket already paid for, not to mention a boyfriend that will come pick me up at the airport and treat me like I no longer need to have my food chewed up for me in advance, can do wonders for the ability to endure maternal demands or grandmaternal affection.
I've washed dishes. I've pumped kerosene. I've loaded cars, written business letters, called insurance companies, and scrubbed toilets. I've even practiced the piano, which made my Mom cry tears of what she claims were joy but what I suspect were actually tears of pure rage over the tragic loss of skill that's taken place over the past year.
When my mother called my name, I jumped. When she asked me to empty one trash can, I emptied them all. "You're such a good daughter," my grandmother told me, fondly.
Somewhere in the back of my mind is the niggling suspicion that I'm being the good daughter to screw over my sister. Masako, who's going back on her nine-year Bachelor's program through University of Washington, will be living at home for the next six months while she finishes up two of her last three quarters.
Washing dishes in my mother's house isn't a walk in the park. Like the Koreans, the Japanese don't believe that a meal is complete unless there're at least nine little dishes per person on the table. Each little dish represents one appetizer or side dish or entree, which in turn requires the use of at least one, usually three, pots or pans. There's nothing that distresses my mother more than visiting my apartment, where I have a grand total of one bowl, one plate, one salad plate, and one mug per person. That's three plates per person, see. A little tick in her eye starts to jump. She usually goes out and buys me more little plates, fragile, beautiful things made out of china, replete with the Japanese aesthetic.
I usually manage to break them within the week. Dishes from Target, that's the way to go. Drop 'em off a skyscraper and they'll break someone's head. Then they'll bounce off the sidewalk. One bowl, one plate, one salad plate, one mug per person.
In Japanese, the word sunao means a combination of many things: obedient, honest, honorable, respectful, proper. My mother marvelled at me after I spent two hours and finished washing up after dinner tonight. "You're so sunao," she said.
"It's easy if I don't have to live here," I told her, spraying water on the floor. "I can always go back to California. If I had to live here, I wouldn't ever do the dishes."
My mother frowned; she likes to forget her daughters' character flaws in between visits. That way, she has nothing but happy things to look forward to when meeting up with them again. "You don't like doing dishes?" she asked, reproachfully. Everybody, in her mind, should like doing dishes.
My grandmother came up behind me and patted me gently on the bottom. "You're a good daughter," she said, proudly.
My poor sister. She'll have a lot to live up to. I wouldn't have done that to her on purpose, would I?
I don't think so.